Who: Loren & MK, then Tate & MJ What: Well.. stuff. When: Oh god, backdated to before the arrest, but just after Hannah's body was found? I think this is known as, whenever this timeline works it works. Where: Passages Hotel, then AHS door. Warnings: I think this doc will be called, Hey Spiderman, look whose got your girl. Also subtitled as No, this isn't awkward at all. Violence, minor kidnapping for actual nap time, coincidentally. Kisses. Tate, you know.
When the world started to fall apart and MK really had nowhere to run, Passages Hotel seemed like the best answer. Mary Jane hadn’t been very vocal lately -- MK suspected that the teenager began to hide during the gassing incident -- and the older redhead decided that youthful problems would be a definite reprieve from all the fucked up things going on the Las Vegas side at the moment. Queens could be the escape she needed, if just for 24 hours. There was no fear gas or snatching children or best friends doing stupid things, and MK was willing to bite the bullet. Willing to deal with a little teenaged dismay to avoid her own problems for a few hours. She wasn’t aware of MJ’s reunion with Peter, only that the younger redhead seemed happier when she did speak up, but MK had a faint feeling that the other side of the door would be a lot easier to handle.
MJ, for her part, used that bit of influence she had on MK to push the woman to the hotel. She hadn’t been through in a while, and while she didn’t think Peter would be there (unless Simon sneaked through without her knowing), she wanted a chance to walk in her own shoes a little. Breathe air into her own lungs. See how Queens looked on her side of the door. The alcohol pulsing through Maddie Kate’s system gave MJ an upper hand in guiding her to do what to do, and though consciousness drifted between the two, the younger girl seemed to be more in control.
The cab dropped her off down the block, and the street was as quiet as usual, just as quiet as the hotel was when she strided inside. It was the first time she stepped foot in the hotel since the massacre in the lobby, and MK tried her best to not picture the bloody mess that awaited anyone who strolled through the space that morning. She had forgotten about it in the never-ending bombardment of problems berating her life, one after the other after the other, but stepping inside caused the image to eat at the back of her brain like a niggling bug. Frowning, she moved past the lobby and up the stairs, but she was distracted, definitely not aware of her surroundings. MJ tried to squash all the fear, whispering that everything would be okay. All she really needed to do was get to her door, and everything would be better, at least for a little while, right?
Right. The only problem was that Loren had no intention of letting her get to her door. His was so much closer, after all, and he wanted to make this fast. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of taking her, but Tate was insistent. He knew she wasn't a suspect or anything like that, but it was possible that she knew Hannah or had some association with the killer. That was Tate's argument anyway, and the past days(as sleepless and hopeless as they were after having found Hannah's body) gave Loren no energy to argue. He caught her at the top of the stairs, before she could move into the hallway. Blocking her progression more than anything. Just your average man in a grey wifebeater with a gnarly tattoo down his arm. He was handsome, but there were bags under his eyes and a serious case of cactus shadow along his jaw that likened him to categories of bloodshot junkies and pornographic theater operators that never saw the light of day. Still, he gave her a small smile and didn't touch her when he asked, "Can you come with me?"
The voice startled her, and MK just nearly jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t expected anyone to be in the hotel, not around there at least, and not at that time of the day. It was late evening, that cusp of time just after “normal” people just got settled in after work and before they made the irresponsible decision to hit the Las Vegas nightlife. She was quiet for a split-second, eyes taking in the man before her, and her eyes flashed a little wariness before she could help herself. The last thing she needed was some jackass to harass her. “I’d love to, handsome,” she started with a sweet smile and calm voice, “but the girl in my head’s got a date she can’t miss, the silly little thing. Rain check, maybe?”
Compliments weren't really going to get her anywhere, and Loren's expression became a half wince of disappointment when she declined his company. He'd really been hoping to avoid putting his hands on her because part of him imagined that it would give Tate some sense of entitlement. "I know what you mean," he admitted sadly. "The guy in mine has one as well." The part that he didn't mention was that this date was with her alter, whether she knew it or not. Loren leveled faded denim eyes on her and the look was all apologies the moment before he grabbed her by the arm and started dragging her down the hall. His door was only four down, any fight she put up wasn't going to last for long. "This will be quick and painless." His tone made it sound like a tense threat, because the words were more for Tate than they were for her peace of mind. He didn't like the idea of throwing rabbits to the wolf.
She caught the look in his eyes, the one that said sorry before he had done anything to be sorry for, and furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. What the hell was he on about? For a girl having been put through the ringer, not only in the past few weeks but over the preceding years, MK probably should have had her guard up more, should have been able to react, but that was her problem, wasn’t it? She never had her guard up in that sense. She knew when something was going bad, however, and the moment he grabbed her arm she tried to snatch it back. “What the fuck are you doing!” she exclaimed, tugging desperately and digging her heels into the ground. But, as much as she struggled, he still pulled her down the hall with ease. And because she still wasn’t one hundred percent well after the gassing, not really, the panic set in quickly and she doubled her efforts to no avail.
At first, Loren didn't answer her. He was brick wall silence and pale eyes fastened straight ahead. He gave no impression of even hearing her until all that struggling kicked in. He was quiet for a moment longer, but irritation was evident in the way his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. She was beginning to put up one hell of a fight, and it was difficult only because he didn't want to hurt her. "Please. Stop." The words were tense with frustration because he could feel Tate rising to the bait of her struggles. Like any predatory animal, Tate enjoyed a chase and he really enjoyed a fight. It made Loren's stomach turn, and she needed to cut it the fuck out right now, before they went through the door. They were at the door now, but it was closed when he shoved her against it for this little pep talk. He kept an arm across her chest to prevent any slaps or unexpected fists, and the only reason he crowded so close to her body was to keep her from kneeing him. "Stop, look at me." His free hand snatched ahold of her delicate chin and forced her to look him in the eyes, which were solemn. As if he were reprimanding a rowdy child in a department store. "He'll like it if you do that, and you don't want him to like it.. understand?" Loren searched her face a moment longer, trying to determine if she comprehended. Then he reached down and unlocked the door.
He caught her off-guard again, even more than before, when he shoved her against the door. The force knocked the wind out of her, and though she tried to wriggle her way out of his grip, it was harder than ever. She shot him a look that was all wide eyes and panic; a girl just recently kept in a psych ward after a panic-induced freakout hardly should be pressed against a door in a creepy hotel with as much force as he was using. She let out a few scared and shaky breaths as he spoke, finally giving up the fight, if just for a moment. “Like what?” she asked warily, voice slightly hoarse and eyes stinging from uncried tears. “Why? What the hell is going on?” She couldn’t help it still, the panic, as everything was still so new and fresh in her brain, and the last thing she could do was control fear pulsing through her veins. But her questions were cut off as he unlocked the door. She stumbled back a little, enough to cross the threshold of the door, and Mary Jane suddenly found MK’s panicked mind falling into her own.
Loren's steps followed her stumble, but it was Tate that cruised through the entrance. Loafers traded out for vintage skate sneakers. Dressed suburbanite simple in faded jeans and long sleeves of baby blue cotton, he crossed into the hall of the murder house. It was good to be back on home turf. The door opened to the home's foyer, where deep oak planked the floor and and an antique rug spanned beneath their feet in a sprawl of persian paisley and burgundy stitches. Even from this vantage point, the house seemed huge, boasting a staircase and corridors that once gleamed but were now neglected with a thin veil of dust. Most noticeable, however, was how dead quiet the place seemed to be. Tate nudged the door closed with the back of his shoe, and he watched her from beneath a lopsided fall of pale curls. His eyes were so dark that they bordered on black, and they drank her in. "Hi, my name's Tate."
Mary Jane’s eyes darted around the space desperately, trying to find some sort of familiarity in the room and not getting a lick of it. She wished Peter was here immediately, or at least that she had something she could use against the curly-haired boy that followed her through. It was eerily quiet, wherever he had brought her, and that put her more on edge than before. She stepped back a little, crossing her arms protectively around her. “Hello, Tate.” Those blackish eyes almost sent a chill through her, and it was a great struggle not to let the fear show in her own green ones. “As much as I’d like to stay in chat, I think you’ve made a mistake. I don’t think we’ve met before.” It had to be a misunderstanding, and hopefully that would be enough to let her go. Neither MJ nor MK could honestly deal with this as well as they would like to admit.
"I know we haven't, but that doesn't mean that we can't talk.. right?" Tate watched her expectantly and wedged ashen hands into his pockets as he strode forward, apparently not perceiving how uneasy she was. Or just not caring. "See, I'm looking for somebody, somebody who ain't so nice on the other side. Somebody a bit like me, I'm guessing." But who wouldn't believe he was nice? Just scope out that dimpled grin and the way even teeth scraped his bottom lip, as if sheepish nerves ever got the best of the dead. If anything gave the truth away, though, it was his abysmal blackhole eyes. The kind of eyes you could just fall into forever, dead and backyard buried, never to see the sun again. "Your girl on the Hotel side seemed a little frazzled.." Tate knew what frazzled girls looked like. "Wanna tell me a story about her?"
MJ eyed him warily, arms still hugging herself tightly. She didn’t like this, not one bit, and was still grasping onto the dimming hope that he would realize that this was all just a misunderstanding. But it wasn’t a misunderstanding, was it? Not in the way that he looked at her. The angelic blonde curls that bounced into his eyes and that bashful smile might have made her heart skip a little, but the way his eyes bore into her caused a hitch in her lungs because of something of a completely different nature. “There are a lot of not so nice people in Vegas. Don’t you ever watch those shows on that E! network?” Something told her that ‘Tate,’ if that was really his name, might not know what she was talking about though. He seemed a little dated, in the way he dressed and the way he spoke, and that only made her frown more. She ignored the question about MK because she damn well wasn’t going to start tattling. “I dunno, I’m really, really bad at telling stories. Ask anybody.”
"Aww, I don't believe that." She was young and female. Not that he hadn't noticed to begin with, but it eventually spun his smile into something that more closely resembled friendly. "I bet you tell great stories." Noting her nervousness, Tate hesitated in his approach. He left a good yard of distance between them. There could be more distance if she felt like running, but even Tate wouldn't recommend wandering through this house on one's own. There were worse creatures than him lurking in the dark. The toe of his sneaker twisted to and fro on the rug under his feet, and he kept his unpredictable hands wedged deep in his pockets for safe keeping. "What's your name?" Because, whether she'd noticed it in the midst of her nerves or not, she hadn't introduced herself. "And.. yeah, I watch the.. E! Network.. all the time." He said the network's name with careful pronunciation, unsure of what it was exactly.
Though still tense, MJ tried to calm herself enough to prevent herself from digging her fingers into her tiny arms. She remembered what the man had told MK about this Tate enjoying the struggle, and she appreciated the space, at the very least, even if she did still feel like a caged animal of prey with the predator looming closer and closer. “MJ,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. Vague enough, she was certain. There had to be plenty of MJs running around in the world, even in the fictional one. “That’s my name. MJ.” She quirked an eyebrow at his nervous annunciation, but let it be. She hardly wanted to poke the sleeping beast. She would stand up for herself, but she wasn’t stupid. “What are you looking for?” The question was wary, but maybe she could tell him what he wanted to hear, spin a beautiful little lie, and he would let her out without any fuss.
Tate seemed to accept her name with no further prodding. Something on the floor above drew his attention, and dark eyes swam higher along the antique staircase just beyond her. He didn't like how quiet this house was. Ghosts weren't notorious for making a great deal of noise, but the complete absence of disruption made him feel like something real bad was about to happen. "I'm looking for a man.. I don't know much more than that." Or even for sure that it was a man, but Tate felt pretty confident. "Somebody who enjoys the suffering of others." He studied her expression with rapt attention, waiting to see if that rang any bells for her. Wondering if he'd believe her if she said it didn't. No.. no, he didn't suppose he'd believe her at all.
MJ couldn’t control the look of morbid curiosity that shot across her face at his request. Well, she certainly knew a lot of people like that. Wasn’t that like, a requirement for the jerks that harassed Peter and the Ultimates? And Maddie Kate, she knew her share of people like that, too. “Well, I mean...” she trailed off for a moment, eyes drifting away to stare at the dusty wallpaper lining the walls next to them. She didn’t want to snitch on MK or whatever she had been up to, especially with the fear gas. The younger redhead didn’t know much about it, but it was bad, really bad, and if this boy knew anyone involved there could be retaliation. “There’s a lot of bad stuff going on lately. In Vegas, I mean. There was that...thing in the hotel. That crime scene. But check those journals everyone has? There are a couple people who were writing stuff on there that I don’t trust.” Everything made her feel nervous, from the disturbing quiet of the house they stood in to the way his black eyes bore into her. She shivered a little and swallowed hard. Crap.
"Who don't you trust?" There was a starved dog eagerness in this prompt, a clean baring of teeth that was more excited than threatening. Admittedly, Tate and Loren had paid very little attention to the hotel fiasco. More pressing matters had been going down at the time. Tate chewed on the rough edge of his thumb as he awaited her explanation. His attention was an obsidian blade, sacrificing her outline as she shivered just so. "You seem nervous." He doubted that she was cold.
That he pointed out how wary she looked snapped some sense into her, and she tried to stiffen a little bit, arms dropping to her sides at a bit of a swing. “I’m fine.” Her response was quick and punctuated with a false sense of bravado she used when she was nervous. “They were anonymous, as far as I can remember. She was the one reading them, mostly, and I’ve kinda blocked myself out lately. But the journals, definitely. There are a lot of crappy people out there, and some of them like to brag about it.” MJ blinked a few times, and eyes darted around the room before settling down on the dark angel in front of her. She offered him a smile, shaky and scared. “You looking for a particular reason?” She regretted asking, but settled against faking her morbid curiosity. Peter would be pissed that she egged him on, but he wasn’t here and who knew if she would tell him.
"Yeah, I got a reason." His smile was weakened, and that gentle flirtation gave way to something honest. There was always a heartbreaking honesty to smiles when they were sad. "A girl used to live here," he explained. There was a lift of his eyes to the ceiling and a vague little gesture with his ashen fingers to demonstrate the foyer where they stood. "She was pretty and sad. I didn't want her to be sad anymore, and I didn't want anything to ever hurt her again.. because I loved her." His dark eyes pinned MJ, willing her to understand what it felt like to love somebody that much. "Somebody killed her, and she's not coming back.." Finally, he advanced a step closer, testing the waters to see if she was still on edge. "I need to find who is responsible, you understand?"
And that look he gave her managed to tug at her heart in the worst way. She knew about love, definitely, but MK taught her about loss. The older redhead knew about love and loss and everything in between, and all of that rumbled around in MJ’s head as she couldn’t resist shooting him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she did mean it, and she didn’t even notice as he stepped forward. The ache in her chest distracted her enough from that. “I wish I could tell you. I do. That must...it’s gotta be so hard. I’m really sorry.” She paused and pursed her lips, trying to wrack her brain for any sort of answers. “There’s been so much going on, but I don’t know names. I wish I did. Really.”
"She was the only light I've ever known.." This close - because throughout such a heartfelt soliloquy, Tate's scuffed sneakers led him much nearer to her - it was apparent that his eyes weren't really black. Just a brown so deep that they lost sight of the holy and sank into the hell. There were little flecks of amber there, amidst all that dark. He reached out, pale fingers crawling from the grave of his pocket, and took her hand. Whether she refused him or not, his eyes were sad and he was phantom quick. Would she deny the lost sorrow in his face, the horrible quiver to his mouth and the subtle sheen of unfallen tears in those rabbit hole eyes. Just fall in, just tumble and accept it. "Have you ever lost somebody like that?"
MJ liked to think she was a smart and quick-witted kid, one who couldn’t be fooled by all this. And she was just that: a kid. An eighteen year old girl, for all arguments and purposes, though her mind still had plenty of the touches of the sixteen she should have been, and while she was intelligent and quick on her feet, just the constant fear of having Peter snatched away from her was unbearable. To have it happen? Well, MK knew about that, and Mary Jane caught herself locked in the gaze of his broken puppy dog eyes with that thought in her head. She was a teenager and smart, and at the same time so susceptible and empathetic to heartache. She didn’t snatch away the hand. She couldn’t, not when he looked like that. “No...but she has. My girl on the other side. He was the love of her life, and he got killed, too.”
"I'm sorry to hear that," Tate murmured. There was a truth in his words, because no matter what kind of monster he was, he didn't enjoy hurting people that he liked. Sometimes it had to be done, but that didn't mean he took pleasure from it. He took pleasure from very few things these days. He was tired of hurting people. All he'd wanted was Violet, because with her there was happiness.. and maybe he could have forsaken everything else. The past, the demons, all of it. Unfortunately, there wasn't much of a chance of that now. Tate wound his pale fingers with hers, intertwining them in the same casual clutch that a wolf might use to lead little red into the killing woods. There was a gentle swing of his arm just then, to gather her attention. "There's something about this house.." His dark eyes wandered to the intricate ceiling above them. "Maybe it's cursed, I guess.. because when somebody dies here, they can't ever leave." And he was so tired of being alone without Violet. Tate's smile was faint, when he dropped all of his attention onto the girl before him. "You're really pretty.."
“Me too. But I bet your girl wouldn’t...she wouldn’t want you to do anything bad to yourself or others. Hurt yourself.” MJ’s words stemmed from her own worries about what could happen if Peter ever lost her or vice versa. Revenge was an ugly thing, and she hated to think of how easily it could consume the boy she loved like it did the boy she stood with. The comment about the house drew her attention away from the blond-haired boy and to the decrepit house they stood in. It looked like the type would creak in the middle of the night for no reason. That had secrets in the crevices and old memories in the dust. Goosebumps popped up all over her arms. Could this place be cursed? The idea frightened her a little, even if it was sort of ridiculous. His compliment drew her green eyes back to him, and she smiled awkwardly, tugging against the intertwined fingers just a little. “Thanks,” she said warily as she still tried to keep the shaky smile on her lips. “My boyfriend thinks so too.”
The girl had a boyfriend. "That's nice." Tate's smile was a little crescent curve of charmed interest. Why should everyone else get to be happy with the ones they love? Why was he so forsaken? The girl with her hand in his was nothing like Violet, he could see that. Her hair was too red, but aside from that.. she smiled too much. This girl wouldn't listen to Morrissey, and she wouldn't appreciate black roses. She wasn't wounded, not like him. But Tate imagined that in time, maybe she could be. With her fingers still twisted like a friendship bracelet between his, Tate gave her a tug of direction toward the stairs. "I want to show you something."
MJ looked back at the door they both tumbled through. It was so close, yet so far, and she quickly wondered if she could make a run for it. If it would even be worth it. She tried her best to steel her nerves, keep a stiff back, but little flickers still sneaked through the filter. Maybe she should have mentioned her boyfriend was a superhero. Maybe that would get her out of there. She didn’t like the tug and reacted with her own, a little stronger this time. “I think I should be getting back actually.”
Tate didn't tug on her hand again, but he didn't release its gold either. The clutch was gentle due to heartbreak, and if she really wanted, she could pull free. "I didn't realize I was keeping you." A free hand ran rogue fingers through his sandy hair, but those angel curls still flopped right back into his eyes. His smile lacked those cupid dimples when he looked at her again, nothing but sadness in his eyes. "If you don't want to see, I understand..."
She spotted the sadness, and it just wretched her heart all the more. So, she squeezed his ashen fingers with her own pale ones and shot him a reassuring smile before untangling her fingers. “Promise me it’s safe?” It was a childish request, but one she hoped was true. She wanted to leave, but she couldn’t just leave him alone like this, right? “Promise me nothing’s gonna happen, and I swear I’ll come back. Okay? I’ll come back to visit, and you can show me.”
He liked her reassuring smile, but Tate knew that nobody came back here, not when they had a choice in the matter. He nodded gently, seraphim blond bouncing when he motioned toward the front door for her. That was the way out, the way back to the hotel, the way to goodbye. Tate stood there, patient as a sniper until she turned to leave.
But she wouldn't be leaving. Not now, not ever. Once MJ advanced a few paces toward the door, Tate swept close and caught a fistful of that beautiful red hair. He remembered way back when his mom used to dye her hair red like this, that was her whore phase. The red hair lasted only for a very short time, then she went back to her standard blonde.. but the whore phase never really came to an end. With a rough jerk, he hauled MJ back by her hair, so she'd hit the ground. It was easier to drag somebody that way. All flailing arms and legs, but no balance. Getting up the stairs was going to be rough, but MJ should have just said yes. Then this all could have been avoided.
As MJ turned her back to Tate to leave, she felt a strange tingle at the back of her neck, a shiver of foreboding that she should have listened to. Her own little Spidey Sense. But before she could double take back at him, she felt a forceful yank on the back of her head. She yelped and she flailed and she slammed onto the floor just like he wanted. The jolt of pain it caused was nothing compared to the fear pulsing through her, and she screamed more. “Let me go! LET ME GO!” Her shouts, all frantic and frightened, echoed through the quiet of the house, bouncing off the dusty walls and ricocheting through the hall. She reached up to claw at his hands, fingernails swiping for a piece of skin to scratch. There was no way she would even think of going down without a fight.
Nobody in this house was going to help her. There was nobody here, after all. Some of the ghosts might have intervened, some were tender hearted lost souls in the horror.. but they weren't here, and Violet wasn't here. Tate swore when her nails bit into his skin, dragging long scrapes of flood and flesh down his forearms in tiger stripe battle wounds. The wounds were raw fire, and he gnashed his teeth with a sneer that didn't hold a candle to his smile. "I didn't want to hurt you, beautiful." But she gave him little choice. With that hand forever clutched in her rubied hair, Tate knelt where they were partially up the stairs. ".. But I'd like you to stop that, kitty cat." Of course, she had little choice but to agree when he slammed the back of her head against the stair antique edge, effectively silencing her and ceasing the deranged claw marks from continuing.
It wasn't far from there. Just a leisurely drag down the hall, a romantic stroll in the flickering light. Tate pulled her into the first door on the left. It was a bedroom. There was a dresser with a vanity mirror against one wall, a closed closet on the other. The wrought iron bed was the centerpiece. So beautiful, so full of memories. Windows spanned the room, nearly triangular in a gingerbread house style, and they poured faint, golden light into the room when Tate hefted Miss MJ onto the bed. It was soft with black sheets. The bed of his lost love. Tate whistled as he moved about the room, trusting MJ would be too disoriented to move as he collected scarves and neglected pairs of Violet's tights. All things to tie you to the bed with, my dear.
His sneer was the last thing MJ saw before a sharp pain throbbed through the back of her head, and darkness soon sneaked into the lines of her vision. She didn’t wake again until he was already rustling through the room. There were stars in her eyes, and she quietly reached back to brush her fingers over the lump already growing on the back of her head. Biting back a groan and with her head absolutely splitting, she looked around until her eyes landed on Tate, his body turned away from her, and her heart stopped for a moment. Desperate to escape, she sat up only to catch a wave of dizziness, and a sharp breath slipped through her teeth. But through the stars and pain, she knew she had to get out and so looked for something, any sort of weapon to help her get the best of him, even for a moment.
Sitting up further, her hand closed over an object on the nightstand, but she was moving too slowly, she knew that, and her window of opportunity was closing quickly.
"Ah, ah, ah!" Tate's hand captured MJ's wrist when she reached for the sterling photo frame on the night stand. He didn't pry it out of her fingers but rather let her clutch onto it, as he held onto her arm and restrained any wild flailing movement. Let's not get crazy here. He crawled on top of MJ, straddling her casually in his grunge era jeans. "That's her," he said. Shaking her captured wrist a bit so that attention would be drawn to the picture in the frame. There was Violet, a rare moment of such a beaming smile caught in celluloid, standing between both of her parents. "They're all dead now.." Tate sighed, it was a sad story to tell, but he sounded more exhausted than depressed by the whole thing. Then, he slammed the back of her hand against the nightstand's edge, effectively loosening her grip on the silver frame.
He'd strung a couple of scarves around his neck, it gave him the look of some boho bob dylan poet, and he smiled when he drew one loose from his throat to fasten her wrist to the wrought iron of the headboard. "See.. this used to be my room.. after I died, it was her's.. "
MJ wriggled under his weight, but to no avail. He had control of all her fighting, and she finally realized it was a losing fight. Her eyes pricked with tears, even as he forced her to look at the picture of the family who lived in the house. The girl was beautiful, and she could see why the boy with angelic curls and wolf-like attitude could fall for her. She looked at Tate with wide eyes when he mentioned that they were all dead. That just didn’t seem right to her, and she tried to jerk out of his grasp again. The shock of pain that jolted through her hand did not compare to the throbbing still persisting in the back of her head, the throbbing that made her woozy still, but it was enough to make her drop the frame.
“What are you gonna do to me?” she asked, breathless and frightened and teary-eyed. “Please,” she begged, tugging against the scarf that held her, though the effort was more for show than anything.
"I don't quite know," Tate murmured. The admission came on a note of sadness, he didn't know what he was going to do to her at all. Securing her other hand to the headboard, his pale lips drew to one side as he considered everything, oblivious to her tears and her heartbreaking plea. Did she realize that she was begging for her life yet? He doubted it. Begging didn't work on him anyway, but there was no point in saying as much. If it made her feel better, if it made her feel like she had a shot, he wouldn't deter her. Now that she wasn't going anywhere, Tate crawled off of her chest. He didn't get off of the bed with the rumpled sheets, but rather settled in at MJ's side. Twisting to face her, propping his head up with a palm, elbow digging into the mattress. "This house is so quiet now that they're gone. It gets lonely.. I need some new talent." His dark eyes watched her expectantly. She'd like to stay, wouldn't she?
Mary Jane didn’t know what thoughts were brewing in his mind, but she never claimed to really know anyone’s brain inside and out. She couldn’t help thinking of the worst, though, as he maneuvered around her, binding her wrists to the bed posts. The knots were tight, and as much as she pulled on it, the scarves would not give at all. But she didn’t scream, too tired and dizzy to put up much more of a fight anymore, instead biting down on her quivering lip to suppress a whine threatening to slip out. Her head fell to the side where Tate was laying, and it bothered her that he seemed so casual about all of this. Whatever he was doing or planning to do. The look of loathing could burn holes through walls, but she didn’t say anything. Only stared and waited for his next move.
He took her silence to mean compliance, despite the disdain that surged molten in her eyes. Tate smiled, she was very pretty, indeed. "Don't worry," and his voice dipped low. The holiday hope of a young boy, barely a man despite all the things he'd done. Of course, it helped that he'd been dead for so long now.. it gave Tate a long track record of things he'd never even fathomed in life. "You'll like it here." This wasn't necessarily true, but he hoped that she would. Scooting in closer, he freely draped an arm across her chest. Playing some fingers against the creased sheets, twisting a digit in her red, red hair. "You'll be safe here.." After she died, of course. With a small smile, he nuzzled his cheek against the side of her breast. The drawn binding of her wrists didn't allow for the best of cuddling, but he made it work. When he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was Violet.
His words did nothing to reassure MJ at all, only making everything all the worse. Worrying was the least of her problems, and how could she not worry when her arms were pinned to a bed frame? This house of people long dead elicited anything but safe or positive feelings. The room she laid in, Violet’s room, had that same spine-tingling, eerie feeling as the rest of the house did, but so did Tate. He almost seemed like a manifestation of the house itself, with his dark eyes so menacing yet engaging. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, that was what Tate was, and as he draped an arm over her chest, MJ felt quite a bit like if Red Riding Hood had gotten caught. The wolf’s claws curling greedily into her skin. She stiffened under the weight of his arm and her eyes drifted to the finger twisting a lock of her hair around it. It made her sick, his leanings and touches, and she shivered a little before her eyes trailed back to him. “This isn’t right,” MJ said venomously, teeth gritted. She knew saying something like that was useless, saying anything was useless at this point, but she was also sorely tempted to promise him he’d get his. And he would, even if she had to do it herself. Either way, she decided she needed to keep this to herself. For now, at least. As little as she knew about MK’s problems, she knew the older redhead could not deal with any of this. The guilt or the pain or the fear of it all. No, she would have to keep her lips sealed.
"I know," he admitted sleepily. Tate drew no offense from the bite of her words or the seethe in her tone, he could only agree. Nothing would ever be right again. He drew a deep breath, and the rise of his chest against her was the only sign of life for some time. Tate did not yet rise or even acknowledge her again. Eyes closed, he still had designs for encapsulating the fantasy of Violet, but he just couldn't get it to fit. Eventually, he sighed. It wasn't working. It wasn't her. Stirring with inspiration, Tate tilted his head back against the tight draw of her arm, rolling dark eyes up to witness her face. Raising a hand, he caught the corner of her mouth on the curve of an index finger. A perfect fishhook to draw on her cheek and pull her face toward him. He released only when she was close enough that his eyes crossed upon trying to meaure hers, and then he kissed her. Something slow and curious, sampling.
She stayed quiet for as long as he did, not liking the idea of awakening the slumbering beast, measuring the rise and fall of his chest against her as the seconds rolled into minutes. As minutes ticked by and felt like hours upon hours upon hours. MJ couldn’t understand what was really happening, couldn’t fully wrap her mind around how all of this went down, how she ended up in this bed. Her head throbbed still, and the lightheadedness lingered, even as the pain diminished a bit with each tick of a second. She was considering what to do next when he stirred, and as he dragged her face towards him, she had a look of surprise on her face. Surprise that sparked even more when he pressed his lips to hers. She was nauseous then and shivering slightly, but she stood stock-still otherwise, wondering if it was better or worse for her not to do anything.
His kiss was really more of a sigh, something that was tired. It was a wine tasting, the way he took small and sporadic tastes of her mouth. Prying briefly with his tongue before drawing back with a second sigh, and dropping his cheek down to her chest once again. The silence came again, and his breathing deepened for many minutes before Tate spoke. "Sweet dreams, MJ." His arm tightened around her, and his exhale was warm with the promise of protection when it breezed through the fabric of her shirt, despite everything. Within minutes, he was asleep.. although for her, it surely took some time longer to doze off.